Once upon a time, there stood a house. At first glance, this house appeared old. Tired as though it's bones would crumble at the slightest hint of a breeze. The house's stature was small, unassuming and altogether, kind.
Most folks wouldn't describe a house as kind. Old, yes, but kind, never.
But, Friends, this was no ordinary house.
This house held magic, you see. The kind of magic that's still and quiet but present, always. This house had bones much like yours and mine. This house had a pulse. It was shallow and calm always but a soft and steady pulse, all the same.
I suppose it may be silly to personify a house. Buildings are not living breathing things like you and me. And I suppose that to write in a manner that might attempt to convince a person, a reader, a friend that this house was no ordinary house and that it did indeed live and breath might be futile. So, it is not my intent to convince you, kind reader, that this house was alive.
I will simply tell you the truth about the house, as it was.
This house was not ordinary. Of this I am certain and that small house had quite the story to tell.
Having been built in the early 1930's, this house had stood in quiet and calm for as many years as I've been alive, three times over. I am not certain of the stories this house held or told about previous residents. I am not certain the previous residents knew the house or felt her breath when she breathed in and out but I am certain that the small house had its fair share of residents.
The house stood at the base of a small street, tucked in to the enclosure of a small wooded patch along its backside. I'm certain that when this house was built, the trees were heavier. But tucked away it stood, still. The house was yellow, pieces of that yellow melting in the hot sun. The black shutters and white window panes made the house look a bit like a bee and the house was content with this. Hard wood floors gave the house an added dose of warmth and the windows were many, letting in the light from the West. Always a lovely light from the West. The kitchen was a funny room, slightly tilted and covered in brick at one's feet. An original brick floor, never removed, never remodeled. It stood red, warm and slightly slanted, so that if one stood in that kitchen and focused ever so slightly, he or she would notice the slightest bend and stretch of the floor. This was a small joke well-played by the tiny yellow house, a small token of it's sense of humor. When the train passed, the kitchen windows rattled, excitedly as though at the tip of a roller coaster, excited by the short stretch of subtle movement. The subtle humor and the excitement gave the house a sense of silliness.
There was one powerful measure to this house, something that made it most special and that was the lighting in the house. The tiny house would hold the light within itself, transforming the presence in to something that cannot be described but only felt. The light lingered inside the walls and the bones of the house as a sort of kindness bestowed it, honoring the age of the house and the long-standing strength of the house. It may have been small but the integrity of the house's bones was steadfast and mighty.
So, it was the light that most reflected what was unique about this house. It was the light that made the house sing and dance, light filtering the floors, seeping in through the walls and coloring the energy of the tiny house with a yellow emotion that was nothing less than magical.
Remember, I will not attempt to convince you that this tiny house was magical. I am telling you, rather simply, that the house did not just hold and harbor magic- it was the stuff of magic. It was not a haunted, per se. There was no Spirit left there, dwelling in the reaches of the home...it was the house itself that held the magic. It was in the very bones of the house. I cannot be certain whether the house was built with magic or if the magic seeped in over the years. But I can tell you this tiny house was a place of wonder. There were no rambling rooms like the Winchester House, there were no secret passages, or hidden items. There were no written stories or secret messages the house bestowed.
It simply was a wonderment. And if that is not something, Reader, that you are able to wrap your head around, then I cannot be the one to prove it.
One day, a girl moved in to this house.
She was sad. The house could feel it.
On her first night, the house played a small trick on her. And she talked to the house. Wide open and out loud. She talked to the house and told the tiny house that she was staying. That she lived here now and while she respected the age and the being of the house, the jokes were not funny. And when she talked to the house, the house was given a gift. That the girl spoke out loud to the house gave the house something it needed: recognition. Her voice gave the house it's place. She recognized the bones of the house. She could feel the house breathing- and the house came to see that it was indeed a special sort of thing.
And so the house made a pact with the girl. The house would care for the girl unconditionally in return for her belief in the house's Spirit. The house could not change the girl's sadness but it could hold her close and offer shelter form whatever it was that hung inside of her.
And so, this is how the girl and the house came to be dear friends. Understanding that each carried a heavy history and that each believed in the magic that resided there, quiet and steady. The girl did not tell people of the magic in the house. It didn't matter what anyone thought or felt in that house. What mattered was the light in the house and the way it wrapped itself around the girl.
The girl transformed the house in to a home. Books. Hundreds of books. Some, not so nicely shelved, and many others strewn throughout the house. She draped the windows and filled the corners with things that made her happy. She piled things on the walls and dressed the bedroom with antiques and warm colors. She dressed the house with treasures and the house felt alive. The house felt loved. And the house loved the girl in return.
The house and girl lived in peace, each caring for the other in small quiet ways in a constant sort of way.
And one day something terrible happened. The house could not tell what had happened but suddenly the girl's energy was heavy and dark, such that the tiny house could not get through. It could not reach her. For days and days, the house tried, it brought in more light. It pulled the magic from it's bones and pushed it in to the house just so that the girl could be reminded that the house was there, always. It could not talk to her- that was their deal. It could communicate only in the emotional sense by which she could feel. And the girl became daft and could not feel the house any longer. The house feared that it would lose some of its magic and if the could could just look, just look for a minute, she would feel the love the house was trying so hard to give her.
It took some many many days but eventually the girl opened back up a bit. She apologized to the house. But the house knew something had changed.
Months went by and still, she kept the connection to the house at some bay. She was stuck. The girl was suddenly stuck. The magic stopped at the skin covering her body. Something inside of her pushed it away and it no longer seeped in to her insides. She knew it was there but she had come to believe that she was unworthy. She started to ponder the reality of a magical house and thought she might be absurd for having conversations with a house. And so she became embarrassed and ashamed. This thing that made the girl sad became more clear to the house. But there was nothing the tiny house could do but insist that it keep trying.
And one day, the house had to make a decision.
The girl had changed. She'd turned her back on the magic. Her skin became a barrier. She stopped writing about magic. She stopped believing in magic and she stepped in to some grief too strong for the old house.
And the old house became tired.
So, it decided to gift her one last time. And this gift would be something she would not be able to ignore. This gift would be so great, that it would flood the magic back in to her. But the house would have to gift her soon or, the house feared the girl would lose her belief altogether.
And so the house pondered what it could giver her. The light in the house no longer touched the girl so it would have to be something of enormity. The house was stuck on thought when it finally occurred to the house...
It needed to unstuck the girl. Her will was strong but something had pulled the magic from her and stuck her in a spot where life stood still, unmoving and with no momentum. And so that is how the house came to the decision to get the girl unstuck. It would give her a few chances to see what was coming. It would prepare her. And if she was unable to feel or hear the house, it would keep trying.
The girl loved to read. She had a fascination with stories and when she stopped reading, the house knew that the bad thing had taken some of the girl's spirit and love of journey away from her. She also had a cat. And since the girl was unable to hear the house, the house decided it was time to chat with the cat. One night, the girl's spirit lifted. The house could feel it and knew it had to be in this moment that it spoke to her...but it had to be something stupendous, it would have to break their pact and show her something so undeniable that she would have to let the magic back in. And so the girl, with a Spirit just a little lighter, crept in to bed with a book and the cat at her feet. And that's when the house decided to let them in.
The cat casually peered to the ceiling. And when the girl called the cat, the cat was despondent. Something was crawling on the ceiling. But when the girl stood up on her bed to see what struck her cat's attention, she saw nothing. And so she called the cat again, who in turn, ignored her once more. She wasn't happy. And finally, she talked to the house again telling the tiny house that this was not the pact they made. The cat was staring at something and it made the girl uneasy. You see, she was fine with the magic in the house but anything else made her uneasy and so, she told the house to stop.
But much like the cat, the house ignored her.
The house let them in so she would be startled and reminded that there is always something else. There is always something just outside of our own sorrow and fear. And the house knew the girl needed that reminder if she was ever going to get the magic back and so it let them in. The girl was displeased but only for a time because suddenly, the girl eased in to the reality of what was happening. She knew someone was there. And her sudden fear was taken over by something stronger. Peace. Complete and total peace. People get chills but not like the ones she got that night. That night her chills were warm.
With the reassurance that this moment was harmless, she opened the book to read, her cat finally curling beside her and the two drifted off. When she awoke two hours later, it was because her phone had gone off.
Someone had passed. Unexpectedly. He was a hero, a son, a brother and a husband. And he had passed. And she wasn't quite certain that she was ready to take the news to heart and so she slept.
But sleep. she could not. He who had passed was in her home, in that sweet space. She, of course could not be certain but the feeling was back. And the house drew a great breath. Something inside the girl was awake again. Something inside was open, even if just a little bit. And the house breathed out, pushing it's magic back into the tired girl's skin.
The house would have to act fast, it would have to make it's final push while the girl was opening up. It would be an extraordinary push.
Three weeks went by and the girl grieved the loss of the Hero. She grieved the loss for his family. And the magic came back bit by bit because she could feel some comfort he bestowed to those he loved.
The house was unsure of the timing for the gift. It would happen soon but when? When was the right time?
And one day, the girl let the house know a secret.
And the house knew. The house knew this was it. This was time for magic. An explosive display of magic that it could not be ignored. The house knew this was the girl's chance to move in to a journey. The house also knew the girl would never leave. She'd live with those magic bones for eternity if she could, sheltered in the light.
But the house knew better. She needed to adventure. She needed to leave. She needed to move on and she would never be able to do that, trapped in the memories of what had transpired in that house. This was her chance and the house feared she might not take it, so the the tiny bumble bee house made the decision to push her out. It knew better than the girl. Magic always does. The girl was on the cusp, opening back up but never fully holding adventure's hand, stilled by the comfort of the house. She was stuck so the house would push her out.
In the early wake of one cold January morning, the girl woke up in a sudden pain. Her abdomen screamed at her. She dragged herself from the bed, went to the bathroom and settled back in to the warmth of her bed. Nodding off, a crash echoed through the house and woke her from an easy sleep once again. She'd thought to ignore the sound, so wrapped in the bliss of one of the best night's sleep she'd had since that terrible thing had happened.
"Get up." The voice was loud. It was unmistakable. And it was pissed off.
The girl was lazy but the voice was insistent.
"Get out of the bed."
And so she woke.
She walked through the tiny house, looking, sure a deer was tromping about the outside of her house, stealing the pansy heads again. And then she saw it.
Through the kitchen window, red licked the neighbor's house. Bright and furious. Small. The flames sat in a small huddle, confined to one small space.
She backed away from the kitchen and she thought to leave and did not act until the house screamed at her. Pops and echoes, flashes of red, the undeniable intake of smoke and the haze seeping in to the kitchen made her move. Suddenly, the very air around her screamed in warning. The trees caught fire, sending smoke through the door and in to the kitchen, this time rolling and fighting. Wood snapped, the tree branches burned hot orange and she knew.
The girl could not remember how to unlock her phone. She knew she had to call someone but she could not remember who. The house beckoned her to leave, to push open the door and leave but she caught herself, struck by something. The cat. The house screamed at her to leave but knew it was fruitless...the girl would never leave without that cat. She would burn in that house with the cat. And so the house staved off the flames while the girl grabbed the cat. Blood tricked from some place on the girl and the house cried out in some pain. It wasn't meant to be this fast. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. But the house had a job to do, a promise to fulfill and despite the violence of the moment, it had to push the girl out.
The girl fled the house, finally. She'd feared for those around her, kicking doors, screaming at the very top of her lungs. The house trembled, suddenly regretting, for just a moment, as it saw fear creep through the girl at the loss of some life. The girl would break down doors, smash windows. She would do what it took to wake those surrounding her burning house.
And then the house saw the relief in the girl's eyes as people fled their homes. And suddenly, the girl was still as she turned to face the house.
And when the girl looked back, suddenly, the tiny yellow house was wrapped in fire, burning hot like Kali. There was no yellow. There were no pansies. The tips of trees were dressed in the fire. Smoke filled the night sky and the trill of sirens sang though the air. The girl looked at the house. Behind her men in uniform piled around her, lights flashed. So loud were the lights. So strong that the momentum of the lights made sound, pushing. People were wrapped in blankets. People milled about. People were smoking and asking too many questions. It was so loud.
But the girl could not hear the voices. She could not see the lights. She felt only arms around her while she watched the tiny house burn. The girl did not cry. She did not make a sound. She did not move. She could not move. She watched, only. Talking to the house one last time, she said goodbye. She felt the bones of the house breaking, the magic, she hoped had left with her, fleeing from the house. She felt such a sadness for the house, for her inability to save the house. She felt sorrow, not for herself but for the loss of the house. She asked if the magic got out but in her bones she already knew. She knew this magic had to move. It would not die but it had something to do. It burned hot in the house and the girl liked to imagine that with the smoke of the fire, the magic burned hot, burning through the air and rising to the sky where is belonged, traveling to some new place, outside of the chaos of the moment. The bones of the house released the magic in to the air where it would move in to some new space. The girl knew the magic had lifted, safely. But this did not stop her from mourning the loss of the bones and material stature of the small old house.
The girl's memories went up in flames that night. The sorrow the girl held on to died that night.
Days later, the girl knew.
She understood. And she was grateful.
On Wednesday, January 29th, the girl's past died. And a new beginning was born.
Fire purges. It rages. Fire cleanses and releases. Forests are reborn in the fury of a fire. Seeds and trees and things grow from fire. Fire is real and it is a myth. Fire has always been and it will always be. It will destroy and it will force things and people to rise from it's ashes. Fire bestows blessings. It's a fury not unlike madness. It's personalities, cleansing, angry, broken and hot are many. Fire is the end. And it's the beginning.
Fire burns hot. And when the smoke burns black and fills the air, something is born. A choice to rise up. From the ashes, a Pheonix is born. Orange and red. It is the color of that which made it. It exudes strength and courage. Wings are gifted to the creature, red, yellow and orange, brightly contrasted to the black from which is rises. The weight of black ashes are no match for the wings of this creature, born of fire. Pushing, this creature rises to the sky, above the loss and above the black ashes. It's wings meet the air and it's eyes face the sun, moving always to something new.
I am the girl who loved a house. And I am the girl who was loved, in return, by a house. And some will call me the Pheonix. But they are mistaken. I am no great mythological creature. I am just a girl. It's my future who is the Great Pheonix. My future is the one who rises to the challenge of a new start. Of a new path. I am simply a small instrument through which that journey happens.
Aside from the house itself, the greatest loss has been that of my books and my journals. But, I guess the Universe knows better than I do and she's forced me to read new books and write new stories.
Most folks wouldn't describe a house as kind. Old, yes, but kind, never.
But, Friends, this was no ordinary house.
This house held magic, you see. The kind of magic that's still and quiet but present, always. This house had bones much like yours and mine. This house had a pulse. It was shallow and calm always but a soft and steady pulse, all the same.
I suppose it may be silly to personify a house. Buildings are not living breathing things like you and me. And I suppose that to write in a manner that might attempt to convince a person, a reader, a friend that this house was no ordinary house and that it did indeed live and breath might be futile. So, it is not my intent to convince you, kind reader, that this house was alive.
I will simply tell you the truth about the house, as it was.
This house was not ordinary. Of this I am certain and that small house had quite the story to tell.
Having been built in the early 1930's, this house had stood in quiet and calm for as many years as I've been alive, three times over. I am not certain of the stories this house held or told about previous residents. I am not certain the previous residents knew the house or felt her breath when she breathed in and out but I am certain that the small house had its fair share of residents.
The house stood at the base of a small street, tucked in to the enclosure of a small wooded patch along its backside. I'm certain that when this house was built, the trees were heavier. But tucked away it stood, still. The house was yellow, pieces of that yellow melting in the hot sun. The black shutters and white window panes made the house look a bit like a bee and the house was content with this. Hard wood floors gave the house an added dose of warmth and the windows were many, letting in the light from the West. Always a lovely light from the West. The kitchen was a funny room, slightly tilted and covered in brick at one's feet. An original brick floor, never removed, never remodeled. It stood red, warm and slightly slanted, so that if one stood in that kitchen and focused ever so slightly, he or she would notice the slightest bend and stretch of the floor. This was a small joke well-played by the tiny yellow house, a small token of it's sense of humor. When the train passed, the kitchen windows rattled, excitedly as though at the tip of a roller coaster, excited by the short stretch of subtle movement. The subtle humor and the excitement gave the house a sense of silliness.
There was one powerful measure to this house, something that made it most special and that was the lighting in the house. The tiny house would hold the light within itself, transforming the presence in to something that cannot be described but only felt. The light lingered inside the walls and the bones of the house as a sort of kindness bestowed it, honoring the age of the house and the long-standing strength of the house. It may have been small but the integrity of the house's bones was steadfast and mighty.
So, it was the light that most reflected what was unique about this house. It was the light that made the house sing and dance, light filtering the floors, seeping in through the walls and coloring the energy of the tiny house with a yellow emotion that was nothing less than magical.
Remember, I will not attempt to convince you that this tiny house was magical. I am telling you, rather simply, that the house did not just hold and harbor magic- it was the stuff of magic. It was not a haunted, per se. There was no Spirit left there, dwelling in the reaches of the home...it was the house itself that held the magic. It was in the very bones of the house. I cannot be certain whether the house was built with magic or if the magic seeped in over the years. But I can tell you this tiny house was a place of wonder. There were no rambling rooms like the Winchester House, there were no secret passages, or hidden items. There were no written stories or secret messages the house bestowed.
It simply was a wonderment. And if that is not something, Reader, that you are able to wrap your head around, then I cannot be the one to prove it.
One day, a girl moved in to this house.
She was sad. The house could feel it.
On her first night, the house played a small trick on her. And she talked to the house. Wide open and out loud. She talked to the house and told the tiny house that she was staying. That she lived here now and while she respected the age and the being of the house, the jokes were not funny. And when she talked to the house, the house was given a gift. That the girl spoke out loud to the house gave the house something it needed: recognition. Her voice gave the house it's place. She recognized the bones of the house. She could feel the house breathing- and the house came to see that it was indeed a special sort of thing.
And so the house made a pact with the girl. The house would care for the girl unconditionally in return for her belief in the house's Spirit. The house could not change the girl's sadness but it could hold her close and offer shelter form whatever it was that hung inside of her.
And so, this is how the girl and the house came to be dear friends. Understanding that each carried a heavy history and that each believed in the magic that resided there, quiet and steady. The girl did not tell people of the magic in the house. It didn't matter what anyone thought or felt in that house. What mattered was the light in the house and the way it wrapped itself around the girl.
The girl transformed the house in to a home. Books. Hundreds of books. Some, not so nicely shelved, and many others strewn throughout the house. She draped the windows and filled the corners with things that made her happy. She piled things on the walls and dressed the bedroom with antiques and warm colors. She dressed the house with treasures and the house felt alive. The house felt loved. And the house loved the girl in return.
The house and girl lived in peace, each caring for the other in small quiet ways in a constant sort of way.
And one day something terrible happened. The house could not tell what had happened but suddenly the girl's energy was heavy and dark, such that the tiny house could not get through. It could not reach her. For days and days, the house tried, it brought in more light. It pulled the magic from it's bones and pushed it in to the house just so that the girl could be reminded that the house was there, always. It could not talk to her- that was their deal. It could communicate only in the emotional sense by which she could feel. And the girl became daft and could not feel the house any longer. The house feared that it would lose some of its magic and if the could could just look, just look for a minute, she would feel the love the house was trying so hard to give her.
It took some many many days but eventually the girl opened back up a bit. She apologized to the house. But the house knew something had changed.
Months went by and still, she kept the connection to the house at some bay. She was stuck. The girl was suddenly stuck. The magic stopped at the skin covering her body. Something inside of her pushed it away and it no longer seeped in to her insides. She knew it was there but she had come to believe that she was unworthy. She started to ponder the reality of a magical house and thought she might be absurd for having conversations with a house. And so she became embarrassed and ashamed. This thing that made the girl sad became more clear to the house. But there was nothing the tiny house could do but insist that it keep trying.
And one day, the house had to make a decision.
The girl had changed. She'd turned her back on the magic. Her skin became a barrier. She stopped writing about magic. She stopped believing in magic and she stepped in to some grief too strong for the old house.
And the old house became tired.
So, it decided to gift her one last time. And this gift would be something she would not be able to ignore. This gift would be so great, that it would flood the magic back in to her. But the house would have to gift her soon or, the house feared the girl would lose her belief altogether.
And so the house pondered what it could giver her. The light in the house no longer touched the girl so it would have to be something of enormity. The house was stuck on thought when it finally occurred to the house...
It needed to unstuck the girl. Her will was strong but something had pulled the magic from her and stuck her in a spot where life stood still, unmoving and with no momentum. And so that is how the house came to the decision to get the girl unstuck. It would give her a few chances to see what was coming. It would prepare her. And if she was unable to feel or hear the house, it would keep trying.
The girl loved to read. She had a fascination with stories and when she stopped reading, the house knew that the bad thing had taken some of the girl's spirit and love of journey away from her. She also had a cat. And since the girl was unable to hear the house, the house decided it was time to chat with the cat. One night, the girl's spirit lifted. The house could feel it and knew it had to be in this moment that it spoke to her...but it had to be something stupendous, it would have to break their pact and show her something so undeniable that she would have to let the magic back in. And so the girl, with a Spirit just a little lighter, crept in to bed with a book and the cat at her feet. And that's when the house decided to let them in.
The cat casually peered to the ceiling. And when the girl called the cat, the cat was despondent. Something was crawling on the ceiling. But when the girl stood up on her bed to see what struck her cat's attention, she saw nothing. And so she called the cat again, who in turn, ignored her once more. She wasn't happy. And finally, she talked to the house again telling the tiny house that this was not the pact they made. The cat was staring at something and it made the girl uneasy. You see, she was fine with the magic in the house but anything else made her uneasy and so, she told the house to stop.
But much like the cat, the house ignored her.
The house let them in so she would be startled and reminded that there is always something else. There is always something just outside of our own sorrow and fear. And the house knew the girl needed that reminder if she was ever going to get the magic back and so it let them in. The girl was displeased but only for a time because suddenly, the girl eased in to the reality of what was happening. She knew someone was there. And her sudden fear was taken over by something stronger. Peace. Complete and total peace. People get chills but not like the ones she got that night. That night her chills were warm.
With the reassurance that this moment was harmless, she opened the book to read, her cat finally curling beside her and the two drifted off. When she awoke two hours later, it was because her phone had gone off.
Someone had passed. Unexpectedly. He was a hero, a son, a brother and a husband. And he had passed. And she wasn't quite certain that she was ready to take the news to heart and so she slept.
But sleep. she could not. He who had passed was in her home, in that sweet space. She, of course could not be certain but the feeling was back. And the house drew a great breath. Something inside the girl was awake again. Something inside was open, even if just a little bit. And the house breathed out, pushing it's magic back into the tired girl's skin.
The house would have to act fast, it would have to make it's final push while the girl was opening up. It would be an extraordinary push.
Three weeks went by and the girl grieved the loss of the Hero. She grieved the loss for his family. And the magic came back bit by bit because she could feel some comfort he bestowed to those he loved.
The house was unsure of the timing for the gift. It would happen soon but when? When was the right time?
And one day, the girl let the house know a secret.
And the house knew. The house knew this was it. This was time for magic. An explosive display of magic that it could not be ignored. The house knew this was the girl's chance to move in to a journey. The house also knew the girl would never leave. She'd live with those magic bones for eternity if she could, sheltered in the light.
But the house knew better. She needed to adventure. She needed to leave. She needed to move on and she would never be able to do that, trapped in the memories of what had transpired in that house. This was her chance and the house feared she might not take it, so the the tiny bumble bee house made the decision to push her out. It knew better than the girl. Magic always does. The girl was on the cusp, opening back up but never fully holding adventure's hand, stilled by the comfort of the house. She was stuck so the house would push her out.
In the early wake of one cold January morning, the girl woke up in a sudden pain. Her abdomen screamed at her. She dragged herself from the bed, went to the bathroom and settled back in to the warmth of her bed. Nodding off, a crash echoed through the house and woke her from an easy sleep once again. She'd thought to ignore the sound, so wrapped in the bliss of one of the best night's sleep she'd had since that terrible thing had happened.
"Get up." The voice was loud. It was unmistakable. And it was pissed off.
The girl was lazy but the voice was insistent.
"Get out of the bed."
And so she woke.
She walked through the tiny house, looking, sure a deer was tromping about the outside of her house, stealing the pansy heads again. And then she saw it.
Through the kitchen window, red licked the neighbor's house. Bright and furious. Small. The flames sat in a small huddle, confined to one small space.
She backed away from the kitchen and she thought to leave and did not act until the house screamed at her. Pops and echoes, flashes of red, the undeniable intake of smoke and the haze seeping in to the kitchen made her move. Suddenly, the very air around her screamed in warning. The trees caught fire, sending smoke through the door and in to the kitchen, this time rolling and fighting. Wood snapped, the tree branches burned hot orange and she knew.
The girl could not remember how to unlock her phone. She knew she had to call someone but she could not remember who. The house beckoned her to leave, to push open the door and leave but she caught herself, struck by something. The cat. The house screamed at her to leave but knew it was fruitless...the girl would never leave without that cat. She would burn in that house with the cat. And so the house staved off the flames while the girl grabbed the cat. Blood tricked from some place on the girl and the house cried out in some pain. It wasn't meant to be this fast. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. But the house had a job to do, a promise to fulfill and despite the violence of the moment, it had to push the girl out.
The girl fled the house, finally. She'd feared for those around her, kicking doors, screaming at the very top of her lungs. The house trembled, suddenly regretting, for just a moment, as it saw fear creep through the girl at the loss of some life. The girl would break down doors, smash windows. She would do what it took to wake those surrounding her burning house.
And then the house saw the relief in the girl's eyes as people fled their homes. And suddenly, the girl was still as she turned to face the house.
And when the girl looked back, suddenly, the tiny yellow house was wrapped in fire, burning hot like Kali. There was no yellow. There were no pansies. The tips of trees were dressed in the fire. Smoke filled the night sky and the trill of sirens sang though the air. The girl looked at the house. Behind her men in uniform piled around her, lights flashed. So loud were the lights. So strong that the momentum of the lights made sound, pushing. People were wrapped in blankets. People milled about. People were smoking and asking too many questions. It was so loud.
But the girl could not hear the voices. She could not see the lights. She felt only arms around her while she watched the tiny house burn. The girl did not cry. She did not make a sound. She did not move. She could not move. She watched, only. Talking to the house one last time, she said goodbye. She felt the bones of the house breaking, the magic, she hoped had left with her, fleeing from the house. She felt such a sadness for the house, for her inability to save the house. She felt sorrow, not for herself but for the loss of the house. She asked if the magic got out but in her bones she already knew. She knew this magic had to move. It would not die but it had something to do. It burned hot in the house and the girl liked to imagine that with the smoke of the fire, the magic burned hot, burning through the air and rising to the sky where is belonged, traveling to some new place, outside of the chaos of the moment. The bones of the house released the magic in to the air where it would move in to some new space. The girl knew the magic had lifted, safely. But this did not stop her from mourning the loss of the bones and material stature of the small old house.
The girl's memories went up in flames that night. The sorrow the girl held on to died that night.
Days later, the girl knew.
She understood. And she was grateful.
On Wednesday, January 29th, the girl's past died. And a new beginning was born.
Fire purges. It rages. Fire cleanses and releases. Forests are reborn in the fury of a fire. Seeds and trees and things grow from fire. Fire is real and it is a myth. Fire has always been and it will always be. It will destroy and it will force things and people to rise from it's ashes. Fire bestows blessings. It's a fury not unlike madness. It's personalities, cleansing, angry, broken and hot are many. Fire is the end. And it's the beginning.
Fire burns hot. And when the smoke burns black and fills the air, something is born. A choice to rise up. From the ashes, a Pheonix is born. Orange and red. It is the color of that which made it. It exudes strength and courage. Wings are gifted to the creature, red, yellow and orange, brightly contrasted to the black from which is rises. The weight of black ashes are no match for the wings of this creature, born of fire. Pushing, this creature rises to the sky, above the loss and above the black ashes. It's wings meet the air and it's eyes face the sun, moving always to something new.
I am the girl who loved a house. And I am the girl who was loved, in return, by a house. And some will call me the Pheonix. But they are mistaken. I am no great mythological creature. I am just a girl. It's my future who is the Great Pheonix. My future is the one who rises to the challenge of a new start. Of a new path. I am simply a small instrument through which that journey happens.
Aside from the house itself, the greatest loss has been that of my books and my journals. But, I guess the Universe knows better than I do and she's forced me to read new books and write new stories.
